Evil Intent
by chemm80
Summary: Casefile set Season 2, post "Hunted". Dean and Sam get called to investigate a creepy critter in New Mexico. Pie-eating, Dean whumpage and angsty Sam ensue. You know, the usual. Rated T for excessive use of the F-bomb. Shocking, I know.


**

"Shit! Eyes on the road, Dean!"

Sam gives Dean's right shoulder a backhanded shove, which just makes Dean swerve over into the left lane, causing Sam to let another obscenity slip out between his clenched teeth. He's annoyed with himself as soon as he does it, knowing it's just going to make Dean worse. Predictably, Dean laughs. _Asshole._

Sam has a New Mexico map open on his lap and Dean's been leaning over trying to look at it, letting the car drift toward the side of the road. They're cruising down Highway 60, passing between the Gallinas Mountains on the north and the Magdalena range on the south. It is kind of pretty up here, the mountains covered with pinon trees and scrub cedar, green and sharp scented. The problem is, Sam's not really in the mood to appreciate the scenery.

The problem is, Dean knows these mountain roads make Sam nervous, have since he was a kid, and naturally Dean's been using this inside knowledge to fuck with him since they rounded the I-25 off-ramp. Dean's been skirting the edge of the pavement, taking the curves just a little faster than necessary—even taking his hands off the wheel and driving with his thigh—for miles now.

Sam knowsDean isn't going to dump them over the side of a cliff; of course he does. Dean's driving skills have saved his ass a time or ten, and if nothing else, Dean wouldn't risk his precious car. It's just…it's not a phobia; he won't even call it fear. It's more like discomfort, an itch under his skin—but it's an itch that Dean knows exactly how to use against him.

"Come on Sammy, I gotta see where I'm headed."

Dean makes another grab for the map.

"Dean, I swear to God…" Sam grits out, and blocks him with his left forearm while trying to hold the map still. He wants to make a stop and he's trying to see if they're getting close. He finally fends Dean off, not because he's suddenly grown an extra arm, but because Dean just chuckles and gives it up, apparently satisfied with the rise he's gotten. He relaxes back against his seat with a shit-eating smirk on his face. It's annoying as hell.

And actually Sam's pretty okay with that. Dean at his most relentlessly irritating is a hundred times better than the way he was right after they lost Dad. Reckless, out of control, eaten up with guilt and anger—Dean was circling the drain and Sam was afraid for him.

But now? Sam's seen a lot of bad shit float under the bridge lately and most of it has his name written all over it. Now he's more afraid for himself.

"So what's the name of this town again?" Dean asks, distracting Sam from his morbid thoughts. "Cue-may-do? Sounds like one of those stupid weird vegetables you like, you know…like that green stuff you were wanting the other day…"

"Dean, you know how to pronounce Quemado," Sam says tiredly. "Your Spanish is ten times better than mine."

"You're the one who took all the Spanish classes. What I know is mostly good for gettin' laid—or startin' a fight." Dean considers. "Or both."

"Right," Sam snorts, looking back down at the map. "You can't start enough trouble in one language?"

Sam braces for the next volley, but Dean lets out a low whistle and takes his foot off the gas instead. Sam looks up and sees why Dean has slowed, shoves the map into a crumpled mass onto the seat next to him. He's been waiting for this.

Dean swings the Impala into the pull-off and they get out. They're overlooking a valley that lays out flat for miles to the north and south. It's studded with receiver dishes laid out in a roughly Y-shaped pattern, their metallic skeletons shining stark white against the dirty-wool brown of the valley floor.

"Wow," Dean says after a minute. "That's the thing from that movie, right? The one with what's-her-name…Jodie Foster."

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "The Very Large Array." He forgets to care that Dean's going to give him a hard time about this and adds, "I've always wanted to see it."

And maybe Dean does have some "geekboy" remark ready in response but Sam never finds out, because at that moment the dishes begin to move. In perfect unison all twenty-seven of the oversized antennae swing slowly to the north about thirty degrees and stop, the giant ears cocked toward a new sound.

It takes several minutes and they watch the show in silence, leaning side by side against the Impala's hood.

Dean says simply, "Well. That's worth the drive, right there."

**

Pie Town, New Mexico has an official population of fifty-five and an Old West feel to it—Sam almost expects to see dust billow up behind the car as they cruise up the main street. Actually "main street" is a bit grandiose—there's only the one street and it's just the highway passing through town. This just might be where the saying "blink and you missed it" originated.

In fact, it's the kind of place Dean usually just blows on through, daring some Barney Fife clone to try him, but this time he slows and acts like he's looking for something. He must find it, because he brakes hard enough to make Sam palm the dashboard and swings into the gravel parking lot of a small rectangular building. Sam thinks it should have a hitching rail in front, maybe some swinging doors, considering its surroundings. It actually looks a lot more like a convenience store than a saloon, except for the sign in front:

**Daily Pie Café. Home Cooking On the Great Divide. It's All Downhill From Here.**

The local populace embraces the classic car as fervently as Dean does, seems like every other yard hosts a 50s or 60s vintage car in various states of rust or restoration, and the Impala's not as conspicuous here as it usually is. Sam's pretty grateful for that right now, because Dean has parked them next to a state highway patrol black-and-white. As far as Sam knows there are no warrants out for their arrest at the moment, but he reflexively tries to shrink down into his seat anyway.

It's a completely wasted effort, because right then the police car's matching officer comes out of the store in full uniform, and Dean gets out of the car and walks straight to him. By the time Sam unfolds from his seat and makes his way over, the two are shaking hands and Dean's even doing the left-hand shoulder slap. _Huh_. Dean knows the guy.

"Officer Mitchell! What's it been, three years?"

"Around that. You been staying out of trouble, Winchester?"

Dean chuckles. "You think? You oughta read the newspaper a little closer, dude."

The tone of Dean's laughter, the way it rumbles up loose and low from his chest, tells Sam that this isn't just some show Dean's putting on. He not only knows this guy, he genuinely likes him.

"Pete, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, Pete Mitchell. New Mexico State Police."

Sam puts Mitchell's age somewhere in his late twenties, but he's a fair-skinned guy with a lot of freckles and he could be older. Sam can tell by his manner that he's no rookie, but then Dean asks the question for him, gesturing at the insignia on the cop's uniform.

"Sergeant now, huh? Movin' up in the world."

Mitchell nods with a slight smile. "Yep. Last year. Promotion and a transfer."

Dean looks around and raises his eyebrows. "Uh, no offense, Pete, but this ain't exactly Miami Vice around here. You sure this is a promotion?"

Pete laughs. "It's home, man. My family's here."

"I guess anything's an improvement after Tucumcari," Dean concedes, with a tilt of his head.

"Yeah, well, I thought so." Mitchell quirks his mouth and shakes his head. "Until the trouble followed me down here, anyway."

"You think it's another werewolf, then?" Dean questions.

"Sure sounds like it. My Dad, my sister and my niece all saw something hairy with red eyes, except built like a human, they said. Tried to get in their car one night when they were on their way home from Albuquerque."

"During the full moon," Sam says.

"Yeah." Mitchell glances across the street, then back at Dean. "You know, even after what I saw before, I didn't want to believe it."

Dean's grin is lopsided. "Nobody ever does, Pete."

"No, I guess not. But I didn't have much choice this time. I saw it myself a couple of days later."

Dean frowns. This is new information.

"Anyway, that's why I called you, Dean. The moon's full again tonight and I don't want a clusterfuck like the one in Tucumcari, especially with my family involved."

Mitchell's radio squawks and he goes still, listening. The call's an 11-80, highway accident, one-car rollover with injuries, but nothing that particularly pings Sam's radar.

"Sorry, guys, I gotta go," Mitchell says, striding toward the driver's door, where he pauses. I'll call you tomorrow morning when I get off work and fill you in." He lifts a hand to them and drives off, lights and siren coming on with a blip as he turns onto the highway.

"So," Sam says, nodding mock-thoughtfully, "your contact here is a state cop?"

Dean grin is half-cocked as he says, "Didn't I mention that?"

"Uh, no, you didn't, actually."

"Musta slipped my mind."

Sam smacks him on the shoulder. "Asshole."

Dean shrugs him off and squares up with the door of the café, bow-legged cowboy stepping up to batwing doors. He rubs his hands together like he's getting ready to go to work. And Sam guesses he is. He sighs.

Dean grins like a six year old and claps him on the back.

"Fuckin' Pie Town, Sammy. Three hundred and sixty-five kinds of pie."

It's going to be a long evening.

**

The food is pretty good and Dean tries three different flavors of pie, including some kind of apple that apparently has chili peppers in it. Sam's got heartburn just watching Dean eat it. Dean buys two whole pies to take with them—Triple Berry and Primo Chocolate Cream, if Sam's not mistaken.

The sun's going down by the time Dean pulls onto the highway, leaning back in his seat to accommodate his full stomach. The road rolls over small hills, but it's mostly straight and easy driving. Doesn't look like there's much to see even if it wasn't getting too dark.

They're headed toward Quemado and the night is cool and it's cloudy enough to block any moonlight. Dean has lapsed into a postprandial stupor and Sam's enjoying the quiet, half-dozing and looking forward to a shower and bed, when the back of his neck starts to tingle. His arms are crawling with goosebumps before he's even fully alert. The air in the car suddenly feels heavy and portentous, oozing in and out of his lungs like thick syrup.

"Something's coming," Dean says.

He slows the car, but Sam glances at the speedometer and sees he's still doing around sixty. It's intensely creepy, the eerie feeling that something's lurking, watching them from outside the car, something they can't see back. Sam throws his left arm across the back of his seat and cranes to look behind them, checking for someone or something tailing them. No headlights, but it's just too dark to tell if there's anything else.

Something hits Sam's door with a heavy _whump_. He jerks back around. There's a face in the window, not a foot away from his and he gasps harshly, flinches back.

"Jesus Christ! What the fuck is that?" Dean bellows.

The body is distinctly hairy, but the face looks human. Sam locks stares with it. Its skin is white, like with paint or maybe a mask, the eyes burning red with a malevolent intelligence that freezes Sam's blood.

"Sam!" Dean yells.

The shout breaks the weird connection between them. Sam looks down at the door, to where the damned thing has latched on to the side of the car. He grabs the door handle and thumps the door lock down. He glances at Dean in time to catch the look of fury that abruptly twists his face.

"Whatever it is, it's not gonna hitch a ride on my car, goddamnit!" Dean backs his foot off the gas.

Sam looks back at the window and the creature is further away now, forcing Sam to press his face against the glass to see. _Fuck, is that thing wearing jeans? _Then something clicks over in Sam's brain and he sucks in a breath.

"Nonono, Dean…don't stop. Speed up, right now…go, go!" It's a clear command and Dean hits the accelerator hard before he asks.

"What're we doin', Sam?" Dean's voice is low and tense, his eyes flicking from the road to Sam's window.

Sam realizes he was mistaken before. Whatever this thing is, it isn't holding onto the car—it's fucking running alongside. And it's keeping up.

"Don't look at it, Dean. Just drive…get us out of here." Sam says, watching the hairy, sprinting figure out of the corner of one eye and the speedometer with the other. Sixty miles an hour and it's not even straining. They get to seventy, then eighty, before it finally starts to drop back a little.

"Keep going, Dean. Don't stop until we get to town."

Dean clenches his jaw and drives. The darkness outside the arc of the headlights is near complete and Sam can almost feel its weight pressing down on him. It's probably only about five minutes later, but he's never been more relieved to see the lights of a town. Sam's not sure when they lost the creature; it must have faded back into the scrub at some point.

They pull up into the parking lot of the Largo Motel and Dean kills the engine, clearly irritated now that the crisis is over.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about? I mean…the job title _is_ still 'hunter', not 'runner'? Right?"

"Dean, that was no werewolf."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Then what?"

"I think it was a skinwalker."

"Oh." Dean says. He waits a beat, then turns to Sam, eyebrows raised. "Okay, now why does that mean we run away with our tails between our legs?"

"We're right on the edge of several Navajo reservations here, Dean."

Dean processes that for a few seconds. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

**

By the time Sam gets out of the shower the next morning, Dean's made breakfast of half a pie, washed down with most of a pot of coffee from the front desk. And it shows. He's talking a little too fast and gesturing a lot and Sam's already got a headache. He didn't sleep very well last night and he really doesn't feel like dealing with this particular Dean today.

"So, I was thinking…" Dean starts, and Sam mutters, "God, help us," as he jams a leg into his jeans, but Dean doesn't even pause, just talks over Sam.

"…so what if it _is_ a skinwalker? It's a kind of shapeshifter, right? Silver bullet'll still take it out?"

Sam pulls his t-shirt on over his head and flops down in a chair with a sigh.

"I don't know, Dean. It might, but I didn't want to take a chance last night, especially out in the middle of nowhere in the pitch dark."

Dean concedes the point with a tilt of his head.

"Still—I think we should have just shot the motherfucker and been done with it." Dean snorts. "Might even be some kind of record, getting a case solved that quick."

Sam rubs his eyes with both hands.

"Look Dean, I know how much you love blowing holes in evil shit, and I'm sure you'll get your chance before this is over. If this thing really is a Navajo skinwalker, it's pure evil, to the core. They live for murder and mayhem. And they're smart—they're shaman before they trip over to the dark side. Even to become one is…" Sam shakes his head.

"Have to murder a family member to get into the club, right?" Dean said.

"Yeah, a sibling usually."

"So, not exactly misunderstood monsters, then. Evil by intent."

"Exactly. But it's the powers that go along with it I'm worried about," Sam says, frowning. "I mean, mind reading, mind control…they can mimic voices or animal sounds. And that's without the whole running as fast as a speeding Impala thing."

"Yeah, about that. That's weird, right? Why us? I mean, don't these things usually stick to harassing their own people?"

That's been bothering Sam too, and he nods. "That's why Dad didn't run into many. The Navajo know what they are, have their own ways of dealing with the problem."

"Then why is this one going off the rez?"

Sam shrugs tiredly. "I don't know, Dean. Maybe it's just something else."

"I guess it's probably the same thing Pete and his sister saw," Dean says thoughtfully, rubbing a hand across his chin.

Sam grunts. "Since the alternative is that there's more than one of them…yeah, I'm gonna go with door number one."

"Well, we'd better load up with silver either way. I already talked to Pete while you were puttin' on your makeup. He just got off work. He's gonna get some sleep and we'll meet up with him later."

Sam doesn't even bother to roll his eyes at the makeup crack. It just seems like too much effort and Dean's not really slowing down for it anyway.

"We're invited to dinner, too."

Sam sighs. "Sounds good." And it does, but there's the whole day to get through before then. "What now?" Sam asks.

"I'm glad you asked that, Sammy," Dean says expansively. "We're going to the lake."

**

Quemado Lake is an easy twenty-mile drive from town, but the road switches back and forth through the mountains most of the way. Dean takes it slow because they're just killing time and the scenery really is spectacular, but mostly because Sam looks like shit and it's no fun to screw with him when he's obviously got one killer of a headache. At least, not when it's not self-inflicted. Hangovers land on a whole other planet of fuckery, it goes without saying.

It's not like Dean's really got a hard-on for this lake, or any lake really—at best it's just water; at worst it might be harboring something he needs to kill—but this is the ass-end of nowhere and there's only so much to work with, recreation-wise. They've got a free afternoon and Dean's picked up some food and beer, figures they might as well make the most of it.

Sam got in the car at the motel without comment and hasn't said two words since. Dean's been tired of talking to himself since about halfway through the trip and there's no radio reception up here, so he slots Metallica Black into the player. He can see flashes of the lake before they get there, showing through the trees as the road winds down the side of the basin. They haven't seen another car since they turned off the highway.

They pull into the parking area and Dean kills the engine. The lake sits in a shallow bowl sunk into the mountains. They picked a good time to come; there's not another soul around. The feeling of isolation is so strong, they could be the last people on earth. Dean's had a bellyful of human bullshit lately and right now he thinks that might be pretty okay. He shakes his head. _Gettin' philosophical in your old age, Dean._

Dean gets out, leaving the car window open and the tape playing low. Sam swings his feet out his door and sits with his elbows on his knees for a minute, rubbing at his eyes. There's a little wind moving the trees, but otherwise it's incredibly quiet. Sam stands up and stretches, and Dean can hear every joint in his spine cracking. He thinks maybe his ears need to pop.

"Pretty," Sam grunts.

"Yeah."

"How come no one else is up here then?"

"Don't know. Middle of the day, middle of the week?"

"How come we're up here, Dean?"

"Why?" Dean says. He tosses him a beer. "You got somewhere else to be?"

"I guess not."

They pass a good half hour in silence, except for chewing and swallowing. Dean listens to the wind in the pines and the water against the rocks and thinks it's a pretty good time and place for a nap, except he's not really sleepy. Probably the last of the morning's caffeine and sugar still making the rounds. Plus, he did get some sleep last night and he's not sure Sam did. Kid doesn't look like he's planning on getting any anytime soon, either, judging from the frown on his face.

"Thinkin' too loud, Sam. Keeping me awake."

Sam snorts. "Jet engines at full torque don't keep you awake."

"Whatever it is damn sure kept you awake last night."

Sam's lower jaw juts forward a little. "It's nothing."

"Then let it go," Dean says reasonably and takes a swallow of beer.

Sam's leaning against the trunk of a huge pinon, probably getting sap all over the back of his shirt. Dean knows full well that Sam's overanalyzing brain lacks the capacity to just let anything go, so he sits and drinks and lets him chew on whatever it is for a while. Sam'll get sick of it and spit it out eventually. Besides, Dean can always bug him about his sticky laundry issues later.

The minutes roll by and Sam starts to look a little more relaxed, but he's still got that vertical line between his eyebrows. It creases deeper as he takes a breath to speak.

"I don't know, Dean. It's just…I just can't stop thinking about last night, the skinwalker. His eyes…I mean, he looked right at me. It was like he wanted something from me."

"Probably your liver, or your spleen, or …you know, pick a body part. You said it yourself—these guys are cannibalistic."

"Yeah, but it was more than that. It was almost like he knew me, or recognized me or something." Sam reaches up a hand and massages the back of his neck, then looks out at the lake. "I don't know. I can't explain it any better than that."

"Doesn't matter. We're gonna blow him away soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess."

Sam stares at the water for a minute or two, then slouches down a little further on the tree trunk and closes his eyes. It maybe takes him thirty seconds to conk out, which is fine with Dean. Sam's right. Skinwalkers—the Navajo variety, anyway—are nothing to fuck around with and if past experience is anything to go by, the snakes crawl at night. They need to rest up while they can, stay sharp.

Sam doesn't look much like a hunter when he's asleep, or even much like an adult, with his bangs flopping over his closed eyes and his mouth hanging open. He looks like a giant exhausted ten year old. There's just no way he's got an ounce of evil in him. No way he's ever turning into something Dean has to kill.

But Dean really didn't need to hear that this shape-shifting son of a bitch has taken an unhealthy interest in his brother. He has no reason to think that Sam's imagining that. Evil things seem to be attracted to them—to Sam—lately. Just the thought makes Dean's hunch his shoulders and check his back, but all he sees is the Impala's solid bulk sitting right there behind him like a shield, music from her speakers drifting down the lakeshore like low-lying fog.

Dean knocks back the rest of the beer, exhaling loudly at the end of the swallow. _Damn it. _Why does everything have to be so complicated? What happened to just hunting evil and watching each other's six? Although if Dean doesn't squint too hard at the whole situation, he can tell himself that's all they really are doing, even after everything that's happened. Just holding it together, hanging on until the end.

It's not an especially comforting thought, but then a slight rise in the wind blows the music his way, and Hetfield assures him that nothing else matters.

Dean thinks he's right.

**

The sun's hanging just above the horizon in bloody red and purple Technicolor when they pull into the yard. The Mitchell's house is a double-wide trailer, but it looks more like a home than a lot of places Sam's seen. It's sitting on a foundation and there are trees in front. The whole scene looks like it's been painted there, framed by the scattering of scrub juniper and the gray-blue mesa behind.

There's no lawn—just mowed native grass—but the back yard is fenced and crammed full of a mixed bag of four or five dogs. Sounds more like fifty when Sam and Dean get out of the car. Pete comes out of the house in response to the noise and yells at the dogs to shut up, which only incites them to more furious barking. Pete's saying something to Dean. Sam can't hear a word of it, but sign language for "come in" is pretty universal, so they do. The barking trails off into an occasional yap, like the last kernels of popcorn in the bag.

The scent of cooking food hits them just inside the door and Sam's salivary glands kick into overdrive. It's been a long time since he's smelled any decent food, especially unaccompanied by an overlay of old grease and unwashed body. Sam lifts his eyebrows at Dean, who returns the look. This is gonna be good.

A door opens across from the entry and a short, dark-skinned woman walks over to meet them, the good smells getting stronger as they swirl out the doorway in her wake.

"Guys, this is my wife, Sherrie. Sherrie—Dean and Sam."

"It's nice to meet you," she says, solemn-faced. "Please, sit. The food's ready."

**

Sam watches Sherrie out of the corner of his eye while he's eating. Her dark coloring and bone structure say "Native American" loud and clear, and Sam thinks probably Navajo, but he can't be sure. Could be Hopi or Zuni, around here. Whatever her ancestry, Sherrie isa fabulous cook and Sam wonders if Pete knew about Dean's appetite and warned her. There's plenty of food and she doesn't bat an eye when Dean eats three helpings of everything.

When they can't eat anymore they sit and try to make conversation, digesting, and maybe avoiding the subject for Pete and Sherrie's part. But none of them really have much in common, so the small talk burns out pretty quickly. Finally, Sam gives Dean a look and he nods and clears his throat.

"So, Pete, about this creature…"

Dean hesitates, and Sam gives a miniscule shrug that translates roughly into, "Tell him."

Dean eyes the table and thumbs his water glass. "I guess it's a 'good news, bad news' kind of deal, Pete. We saw it ourselves last night and the good news is, we don't think it's a werewolf."

Pete frowns. "You saw it? Where?"

"It came at the car last night out on highway 60. Seems like whatever this thing is, it's a pretty good runner—like about seventy-miles-an-hour good."

Pete looks surprised, but Sherrie's reaction is what really catches Sam's attention. That's alarm in her eyes, and her shoulders are pulling up, tensing tighter by the second. Pete starts talking and Sam turns back to him, but he's keeping an eye on the wife.

"That's what I was going to tell you," Pete says, looking freaked. "That's how I saw it, too—running alongside my patrol car. It's happened twice now…crazy red eyes and hairy, but built like a man." He stops to consider. "Wait—you said you don't think it's a werewolf. Then what?"

Dean gets a slightly pained look and says, "Well, that's kind of where the 'bad news' part comes in, Pete. We think it might be a skinwalker."

Sherrie gasps audibly and looks even more agitated.

"Are you all right, Sherrie?" Sam asks.

"That can't be right," she says quietly, looking down at the table.

"Why do you say that?" Sam asks her, his quiet, sympathetic tone the same one he uses for traumatized victims.

"I am Dine—Navajo—and I know what you're talking about. They are evil. We don't talk about them, or speak that word." She pauses, swallows hard. "Naming them calls them to you," she finishes quietly.

At that moment the dogs start barking frantically and growling low and vicious, a completely different sound than the one they made when Dean and Sam arrived.

The back door opens to a deck and they all step out onto it. It's full dark now, really dark this far from town. They can't see anything and at first the barking keeps them from hearing.

But then the dogs go suddenly quiet, whining and slinking back toward the house. That's creepy enough. But the sound that starts up after is so much worse.

It sounds like moaning, like the wind, but the pitch of it rises and falls and Sam can't tell what direction it's coming from; that seems to change with the passing moments, too. It raises the hair on the back of his neck immediately. He feels Dean shift subtly forward.

"What the hell is that?" Pete asks softly, like he doesn't want to be overheard.

Sherrie answers. "It's a tsin di ni. It means 'groaning stick'."

"A bullroarer," Sam translates.

As if it hears its name, the sound dies away. Nobody moves for a couple of minutes, but the night stays quiet. Dean's eyes take one more sweep of the horizon and he motions them back inside.

"Looks like you were right, Sam," he says when the door is shut behind them.

Pete looks at them questioningly, but Sherrie answers instead.

"Medicine men use the groaning stick in healing and cleansing ceremonies, but…so do the evil ones."

Pete shakes his head. "I don't get it. If it is one of these skinwalkers, why us? What does it want?"

"Nothing good, that's for sure," Dean mutters.

"I'm wondering that, too," Sherrie says. "These…things…are common in my culture. All our people know about them, but I've never heard of them bothering anyone who wasn't Dine."

"I don't know that 'why' matters," Dean says darkly. "We gotta kill the sucker. We can ask questions later."

Sam shakes his head. "No. We have to find it first, and knowing what it wants might help." He looks at Pete. "We need to talk to your family."

"I'll call Barbara," Pete says, and picks up the phone.

Barbara is Pete's sister, and she lives with their father and her daughter about ten miles away. As it happens, Barbara's happy to talk to them.

"Barbara says be there at seven, she'll have dinner waiting," Pete says, as he walks them to the front door.

"Dude, I friggin' love your family," Dean says.

Pete chuckles and cuffs Dean's shoulder. "Get outta here, chowhound. I'll see you, tomorrow night."

They're about ten miles out when Dean barks a laugh and says, "Oh, fuck me_." _

Sam looks at the road sign and shakes his head. "Seriously?"

It reads:

**Adopt-a-Highway Litter Control Next 1 Mile**

**Ted Nugent, United Sportsmen of America.**

Dean says, "Home cooking, pie, legends of rock…I'm telling you, Sam, I think I could really get to like this place."

**

The weather is still cool and cloudy the following day and it passes quietly. Just before sundown, they meet Pete and Sherrie at their house and Dean follows Pete's pickup to Barbara's. Barbara's warm and welcoming. She seems happy to see them, like she's invited them over for friggin' tea or something, but Pete makes the introductions.

"Dad, this is Sam and Dean."

"Bob Mitchell," the older man says, shaking Dean's hand with a strong, sure grip. Something about the guy reminds Dean a little of his father. The thought is like pressure on a fresh bruise, but he shrugs it off like he's done dozens, maybe hundreds of times by now. One of these days he might even get good at it.

Barbara seems almost anxious to talk to them, and Dean can't really remember when that's ever happened. But he's more than willing to forgive Barbara any eccentricities, because like her sister-in-law, Barbara is a fan-fucking-tastic cook. She sits them all down and lays out a gorgeous spread: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and homemade rolls so big and fluffy Dean could use one as a pillow, and he kind of wants to. It's pretty unheard of for them to have home-cooked food two nights in a row and when opportunity like that knocks, let it never be said Dean Winchester wouldn't open the fucking door, his brother's bitchy looks be damned. He's gonna enjoy this.

Eventually it's time to get down to business, though. Dean pushes his plate back a little and catches Sam's eye, then glances at Barbara's daughter, Kara. Sam gets the message—Dean's handing him the ball. He picks it up and runs with it.

Kara's twelve years old and she's barely touched her food, hasn't spoken at all. Sam gives her his trademark eyes, all big and innocent, and says carefully, "So Kara, how are you doing with all this stuff that's been going on?" The girl actually smiles a little and starts talking to him. She seems reluctant to even mention the skinwalker, but Sam keeps patiently probing for an inroad.

Dean's lip twitches, watching Sam work. There's just something about his brother's face that makes women want to spill their guts. Dean doesn't get it, but females universally do, young or old. It's an amazing thing to watch, really. Dean thinks Sam should use that trick on women his own age once in a while. It's obviously a gift.

After Kara subsides back to shyly studying her plate without really telling them anything new, Sam moves on to Barbara. He gives her an appraising look and says, "You seem pretty calm about this whole thing."

She quirks a smile. "Oh, it wasn't a pleasant experience—scared the hell out of me, if you want to know the truth—but I've been seeing strange things all my life, so…"

Bob grunts. "Well, I've seen some things myself. I did two tours in Vietnam, you know, and nothing much scares me. But I don't mind telling you, that _thing_…well, that was the worst thing I've ever seen. Its eyes…" He stops talking like there's something in his throat. He shakes his head.

"What did you see?" Dean asks, talking to Barbara now.

"I could feel it before I saw it," Barbara says. "It was like time slowed down; it was otherworldly."

Dean nods. He knows exactly what she means. "Then what?"

Kara clears her throat. "May I be excused?"

Barbara smiles painfully. "Sure, honey."

Kara gets up from the table, smiles shyly (mostly at Sam, Dean notices) and disappears down the hall.

Barbara watches her go and says, "This has been hard on her. She's still pretty upset."

"I would think so." Dean says, nodding. He waits a beat or two, then prompts, "You were telling us what you saw."

"Yes." Barbara closes her eyes for a moment. "Something leapt out of the ditch at the side of the truck—eye level with us. It was hairy. It had on a man's clothing, but it wasn't like any man I've ever seen." She stops, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "It was awful. And it was evil. I could feel it."

Sam frowns. "Barbara, what did you mean when you said you've 'seen things'?"

"Oh, all the women in my family have the Sight," Barbara answers matter-of-factly.

"That's what he wants," Sherrie bursts out. She's been so quiet it startles them all. Seeing she has their full attention she explains simply, as if stating the obvious, "He's drawn to your power."

Sam pales a little at that and Dean turns toward her. "How do you know that, Sherrie?"

"Yeenaaldooshii are witches, followers of the Witchery Way. Seekers of power." She pauses, uncomfortable with their scrutiny, then shrugs. "It's common knowledge where I grew up."

No one seems to know what to say to that and the room grows quiet. The eerie howl that comes next sounds sharp, too loud in the silence.

"What the hell was that?" Pete says, and Dean puts a hand out to quiet him. Everyone goes still, listening hard, and it comes again.

"That's no coyote," Bob says, frowning. Dean gets up and flips the light switch, darkening the room in an attempt to see outside and make them less of a target. He and Sam move to opposite windows, trying to see.

Barbara screams. Sam jumps back and swears.

Dean whirls, "What?"

"A face—eyes—in the window." Sam peers, squints at the dark, but it's gone.

"Same thing as the other night?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"All right," Dean begins, thinking, trying to figure out a safe place to leave this herd of sheep while he goes after the bad guy.

There's a crash of breaking glass, shockingly loud. The child's scream hits Dean at the base of his spine and he's on his way down the hall before Barbara even cries out.

"Kara!"

By the time the rest of them make it to the bedroom, Dean's got his head out the broken window. He's trying to get a handle on where the thing went, but he can't see jack shit. Can't hear anything, either, over the chaos in the room. Barbara's hysterical, hands over her face, gasping out, "Oh my God" over and over. Pete and Bob are both yelling and milling around the room; Sam's trying to calm everyone down.

Dean gives it up. The night isn't telling him anything and he pulls his head back in the window, turns to the room in general, and bellows "Shut up!" with everything he's got. They do, thank God, but now they're all looking at him—for further instruction apparently. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to think. This motherfucker has the kid, and fast as he runs he's probably halfway to Arizona by now.

_Fuck_.

"All right," Dean says, checking his Glock and shoving it back into the waistband of his jeans. "Pete, you stay here in case it comes back."

"Fuck that," Pete says darkly. "I'm going with you."

Dean actually thinks about taking him for a second. As far as they know there's just one skinwalker and two of them, but Dean's still not liking the way that adds up. Pete actually handled himself pretty well back in Tucumcari, but he doesn't know what they're dealing with, not really. He also doesn't know how Sam and Dean work together—the signals they use, the way they both know what the other's going to do before he does it.

"No." Dean shakes his head. Pete starts to protest and Dean shuts him down with a hard look. "You called us here because we know what we're doing, Pete. You need to trust us to do it."

Pete squares his jaw, but he nods slightly.

"Stay together," Dean orders, but it's not really necessary because all four civilians draw together into a clump, looking for safety in numbers maybe, as they all make their way to the back of the house. Dean and Sam slip out the back door and onto the deck.

It's dead quiet. The air is heavy, almost expectant. No wind, no noises of small animals shifting in the dark. The dogs look up when they walk by, but they stay hunkered next to the house and they don't bark. The biggest one whines softly, but otherwise they don't make a sound. That's wrong enough to make Dean pause and scan the perimeter, but he doesn't see anything. It's just too fucking dark.

Finally Dean just signals to Sam to split up and head out. Dean doesn't have much hope they'll find the skinwalker or the kid, but at least his night vision's kicking in now and he can see where he's putting his feet. There's a shallow arroyo running parallel to the house, about a hundred yards behind it. Dean figures if there's any chance this thing's still around, it's down there, but there's a lot of scrub juniper all over and any one of the bushy plants is plenty big enough to hide a human form. _Christ, this sucks out loud._

He backs up against one of the trees just to have something behind him, to feel less exposed, and scans the swath between the house and the arroyo. The house lights are off and that helps a little, but Dean doesn't see anything. He doesn't really expect to. They don't have a chance in hell of finding it out here, no way it's gonna be slow or stupid enough to get caught out in the open, in the dark. They need to come up with a better plan.

Then he sees something, a figure moving toward him from the east, like it's circled around from the direction of the house. He waits in the shadow of the tree, and it keeps coming. It doesn't seem particularly fast from this angle, maybe weighed down carrying the girl. But if that's true, if he's got Kara, it's a pretty grim fact in itself because there's no struggling or noise from her at all. _Damn it._ He puts a hand to his gun, but then leaves it where it is. He can't fire at the thing from this range in the dark.

Dean starts working his way from tree to tree to intercept the figure, until finally he figures he's close. Sure enough, it passes within three feet of him and he tenses his body, uncoils in its path. He puts his weight behind the right cross to the jaw and drops it like a stone, a short grunt at the slap of impact the only sound.

"That was easy," Dean says under his breath and leans over the body, ready for a trick but hoping for some clue about Kara's whereabouts, 'cause she's damn sure not here. Then he sees.

_Pete, you stupid son of a bitch. _

Now what? Dean could carry him back to the house, but he's not feeling that charitable toward Pete right now—he fucking told him to stay put. The skinwalker's still out there and so is Sam, and the girl's still missing. Pete's heavy ass can just wait for a minute. Dean drags Pete's limp body up under the tree's overhang, makes sure he's breathing okay and figures he'll check on him shortly. If they don't find something in the next few minutes, Dean's gonna whistle for Sam anyway, see if they can't regroup, make a new plan.

Dean's at the edge of the ditch when he hears the noise behind him. He turns, ready to fight. It's standing there with the girl draped over one arm. It stares at Dean, defying him, completely unafraid.

Dean draws his gun, he tries, but his arm won't work. He can't move at all, it's some kind of fucking mind whammy…_damn it_…he wills his arm to move—_anything, _please just fucking move already—something hits him hard across the temple and everything goes black.

**

It's on a repeating loop in Sam's head—_this is bad, not gonna work—_but he knows they have to do something. The longer they wait, the less chance they have of finding Kara alive. He eases away from the house and back toward the west, trying to widen the area they're covering. He can't see Dean anymore—_fuck_—he trips over a chunk of deadwood—can't see anything.

This is stupid; they need to think of a new plan, if you can even call this one of those. It's so bad it's going to blow up in their faces and when it's done with that, it's going to circle back around and bite them in the ass. He's thinking of just finding Dean and heading back to the house when he hears it.

Footsteps behind him, and breathing—that's how quiet it is—he can hear the fucking thing breathing. Sam turns slowly and the skinwalker stands there looking at him. The white-painted face shows up brighter in the dark, and it seems to float over the rest of the figure. Sam meets the red eyes steady on, but it's not easy. There's real evil here; Sam's seen it enough times to know.

Sam raises his gun, even though he can see the limp figure of the child slumped over one hairy arm, blocking the shot. He takes a cautious step to the side, trying for a better angle and the skinwalker turns with him, grins horribly. No way Sam can fire and the skinwalker knows it.

It's a stalemate, but Sam can't help wondering why. Why is it still here?

"What do you want?" Sam demands.

The grin twists into a smirk and he speaks, low and raspy. "I have what I want, Blood Eater."

That brings Sam up short. "Why do you call me that?"

"I can smell it on you," the skinwalker says, leering. "Why do you fight what you are?"

Sam's brain's not processing any of this, doesn't want to, but as long as the skinwalker's talking he isn't running off with the girl. Sam tries another tack.

"What do you want with her?" Sam nods at Kara. He's looking for a clean shot, but the skinwalker's still using the limp body as a shield.

"This?" The skinwalker dips his head toward the child, then runs his tongue out, slides it slowly up her neck. "This is just _meat_."

Sam swallows back bile and the skinwalker laughs hoarsely.

"You deny the power that burns inside you. It will consume you."

"Shut up," Sam chokes out.

"You will see. The road winds, but your ending is the same."

"So's yours, motherfucker."

Sam turns his head in time to see the muzzle flash from Dean's gun. The skinwalker rocks sideways and drops to the ground, spilling Kara down onto the hardpan.

Sam nearly drops himself, in sheer relief. Dean charges up and grips Sam's shoulder, looks him over for damage with an efficiency born of years. Then he turns to the skinwalker, eases over to the body and nudges it with his toe, checking for signs of life. It was a clean headshot. Whoever it was is dead.

Sam's head is full of questions. _Who was he? What did he know about me?_ Then he remembers the girl and drops to the ground beside her.

"Is she…"

Dean's already kneeling with his hand on her neck, feeling for a pulse.

"She's alive." Dean says shortly. "Don't know how bad."

That's all Sam needs to hear. He scoops her up and heads for the house at a trot, leaving Dean to deal with the dead skinwalker, bring him in or leave him for the buzzards, Sam doesn't really give a shit.

Sam takes the steps of the back deck two at a time and Barbara comes running to meet them at the door. She's a mess—tears, questions, and expressions of gratitude pouring out of her. Sam's having trouble dealing with it; he's relieved when Bob intervenes.

"Shh, Barbara." Bob says firmly, and turns to Sam. "How is she?"

"She's alive, but she needs a hospital. Now."

"No use waiting for an ambulance this far out. We can get there faster ourselves," Bob says. He takes Kara from Sam and strides to the front door with Barbara on his tail.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Sherrie asks, "Where's Pete?"

Sam frowns. "I thought he was with you."

Sam moves toward the back door and meets Dean, who's got Pete in tow. He's moving under his own power, barely, with Dean supporting and steering via his right fist balled up in the shoulder seam of Pete's shirt. Dean lowers Pete onto the living room couch and Sherrie goes to check on him.

"He'll be all right," Dean tells her grimly. "He accidentally hit my fist with his face."

Pete eyes Dean. His jaw is swollen and he squints a little, like he might be having a little trouble focusing, but his words aren't slurred. Sam thinks maybe he's not too seriously concussed.

"Assault on a police officer is a serious crime, my friend," Pete says, one corner of his mouth turning up.

"If you'd stayed here like I told you, I wouldn't have had to hit you," Dean answers.

Pete's eyes droop shut and Dean tells Sherrie, "He's okay for now, but wake him up every few minutes."

Dean's got a nasty cut on his temple, dried streak of blood smeared down the side of his face, but it doesn't look hospital serious. He sees Sam looking at it and gives a tiny one-shouldered shrug, shorthand for _I'll live._ He gets up and walks to the kitchen and Sam hears him rummaging for ice.

Sam rubs his face with both hands. The adrenaline's started to leach out of his blood and he's feeling it. He can't really call it a letdown—this turned out so much better than he was expecting. When he takes his hands away, he's looking into Sherrie's dark eyes.

Sam thinks of a guy he knew in college who was Navajo; Sam's never met anybody who had less use for small talk. Must be a cultural thing because Sherrie hasn't said much since they came inside, or really in the whole time he's known her, but he can see she's got something to say to him now.

"Did you get him?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"How?"

And that's such a good question, he really doesn't have an answer for it. Or maybe he does, but it's not something he wants to say out loud. But Sherrie's got this placid look on her face like she'll be happy to sit there waiting forever. Sam must be really tired, because he suddenly pictures her turning to stone, like a figure of Buddha. He has to bite down on the urge to laugh hysterically.

He finally just tells her, "Actually, it came to us."

"To you and your brother…or just to you?" she asks, fixing him with a steady gaze that makes him really uncomfortable.

But it's not nearly as bad as the one Dean's giving him from just inside the kitchen door.

**

When Dean walks out of their room the next morning, Pete's pickup is already parked next to the Impala. Pete gets out of the truck and leans back against it as Dean approaches.

"Hey, how's Kara?" Dean says, leaning back against his own car.

"She's pretty shaken up, but she'll make it. Seems like she was out of it for most of the time that thing had her. I think she'll be okay."

Dean nods. "Good."

"You guys taking off today?"

"Yeah, pretty quick. Where's a good place to get some breakfast?"

"Try Steak, Shakes and Pancakes." He points up the street.

"Awesome," Dean says, smirking.

Pete nods and folds his arms. Dean can tell he's not finished talking so he looks away, peers at the sun clearing the trees in the park across the street, giving him time to spit it out. Pete looks at the ground for a good minute longer, then says, "Why us, Dean?"

Dean huffs. "Been askin' myself that question for twenty years, Pete."

"No, I mean…come on. You know about this stuff. Is my family cursed or something?"

But right then Sam walks out. He looks a little better than yesterday, Dean thinks, even carrying an armload of crap to load into the car.

"Hey, Pete," Sam says. "What's the word on Kara?"

"She's gonna be okay." Pete looks at Dean. "She's a lucky girl."

Dean smiles and nods slightly. _That's all it is. Luck of the draw._

Sam stows his stuff in the trunk and gives Dean a look: _Ready?_ And Dean really is.

Dean extends a hand to Pete and Pete takes it. He says, "Thanks, man. You're welcome here any time." The corner of his mouth lifts. "Random evil not required."

"Sure thing, Pete," Dean says. "Now—who's ready for some breakfast?"

**

They're almost fifty miles out of Quemado before either of them speaks more than a one-word question or a grunted answer. They drive past the Very Large Array again. There's a visitors' center, but Sam's not much interested in stopping.

But Dean huffs a laugh when they pass and Sam has to ask.

"What?"

"Do those things really tune in to alien communications, like in the movie?" Dean wonders.

"I guess so. If there's anything to hear."

Dean drives for a minute, then says, "Aliens might be kinda cool."

"Seriously? You don't think we've got enough fucked-up shit to worry about?" Sam replies.

There's a short darkening of Dean's expression, like a cloud drifting across the sun. But it passes quickly and he says, "I don't worry about it. That's what I've got you for."

They've gone another twenty miles, coming up on the interstate, when Dean speaks again.

"Besides, the aliens could be hot," he says, raising his brows suggestively. He adds, nodding, "Alien sex, Sam—you gotta admit, that's pretty kinky."

"I guess you'd know, after that bartender in Phoenix," Sam says, deadpan.

Dean snorts, then throws his head back and laughs full on. And because that sound will never not be contagious, Sam laughs, too.

**

A/N: All of the New Mexico places and businesses mentioned here really exist, but it's been a long time since I've been to the Pie Town area. Apologies for any errors. This fic is also posted in my LJ, complete with pictures of some of the places and scenery mentioned in the story. See my profile for link to my LJ.

Also, I'm fully aware that the "werewolf in Tucumcari" contradicts canon, as Dean states in "Heart" that they haven't run across a werewolf since they were kids. Just roll with me, 'k?


End file.
